Reach to meet the End
by Caledonia1986
Summary: Watson gets kidnapped and tortured. Rated T but am not sure. Mentions of torture, dark themes, slight death, but NO char. death! Don't like, don't read! Reviews make me happy!


_**Disclaimer: I do not own anything, I am merely borrowing!**_

**Summary: Watson gets kidnapped and tortured. Watson/torture! Mentions of death, torture, dark themes! **

**Warnings: Torture, mentions of dark themes and death...  
**

A/N: Inspired and brought on by an Evanescence song called "Whisper". Heard it all the time when I wrote it. I recommend you listen to it at least once while after/before you read this. The text knicked the inspiration to this. 

Quote of "Interview with the Vampire".

Also, I am quoting the master himself by taking one of the lines and giving them to Watson. Cookies for the one to find it. *_holds fresh cookies out*_

Constructive critisicm is welcome, but be nice, this is my first Holmes fanfiction I've published! Reviews cause me to smile and make my day a little brighter!

Any spelling errors found may be kept, and I apologize for them^^

* * *

**Reach to meet the End**

I had forgotten who they were or why they had captured me. Had purposefully forgotten it, but I doubted that now I could think of anything besides the pain anyway.

I did not know where I was or how long I had been there, but it felt like ages. Ages filled with beatings, kicks and countless bruises. Breathing got harder with every hour. They had bound me to a wodden post like some dog, which filled me with boundless, but useless rage. I remembered how they had gotten hold of me, and had to stop myself from scoffing at my own carelessness.

They came out of an alley and I was knocked senseless. I had been on my housecall route, but said routine had been interrupted when I had been spoken to by a young man, evidently in great distress over his fathers illness, begging me practically to follow him and help. And followed I had, not knowing that I had walked open-eyed into a trap. I have no doubt it had been a very simple ruse, and surely my friend thought so also and scoffed at my inability to spot it first-hand, but I must admit, that even though I am closely associated with Sherlock Holmes, I am a doctor and as such concern for patients takes over more often than I care to mention. And I hoped, still I hoped, that my friend Sherlock Holmes would find me, though I do not know how he could achieve that feat.

I simply needed to hold on until he had found me. Forcing my eyes to open, which was no easy thing to do, considering one was swollen shut, I tried to take stock of my surroundings. I couldn't make out much, shadows gathered in every corner. I saw a stone floor, not cobblestone, but close, it was wet and grimy. There was light coming from somewhere, but not enough to allow me to see anything more. Too bad I couldn't smell anything, but the moment they had broken my nose, smell had also almost dissappeared. All I now smelled was the metallic twang of blood. At first it had smelled as if there was water nearby, but I couldn't recall now. Also, when they had come upon me, it had been more than just one man, but since I had been here, I had only seen one specific man. I couldn't remember having seen him before, a face like his I was unlikely to forget. Huge, a very tall man, muscular, judging by the force of his blows, a face which looked like he had been laying underneath a buckling horse, several teeth missing and I remembered the stench he emitted. That was the only thing I was glad I couldn't smell now.

I felt the post dig into my back, my hands were bound behind it and my chest secured with several rough ropes. I had tested the strength of the knots earlier, there was no way I could break free without help. The rope bit into my wrists, each movement caused a small stab of pain to travel through my arms up to my aching shoulders. Small trickles of blood had dripped into the fabric and clung to my skin. Movement cause the wounds to break open once more and the raw skin scrubbed at the rough fabric. Also, the beatings I had undergone before had left my body battered and bruised, especially in my chest area. Moving was therefore no good idea, in general. I doubted I could even do so.

Again, my awareness dulled and thoughts swirled around in my brain, I kept thinking of Holmes foremost. I knew he wouldn't allow himself to rest until I was found, would drive himself to exhaustion and beyond to locate my whereabouts. I wondered if he knew yet where I had been attacked. If he had found my Gladstone bag I had lost in the brief struggle. If he right now, while I was thinking it, was on his way to get to me. I knew vaguely that with every hour I spent here, my chances of survival declined further. The man who I only called my captor, had tried to pry information from me, but I would be damned if I said even so much as one word to him. He wanted to know about Holmes, what exactly, I had forgotten. And the more I kept silent, the more elaborate his methods would become, the more he would think of more complicated ways to break me.

But I would not tell him anything.

I hadn't been a soldier for nothing, I was able to ignore pain for a while until Holmes arrived. I do not say that it wasn't terrible and agonizing, me waiting for Holmes while I heard a faint rattling in my lungs, but I refused rather stubbornly to give in. I clung to the hope that my friend would find me in time, and even if he didn't and would be too late, I was determined to die with a clear conscience and not betraying his trust in me. But however tired and pained I was, I was willing to hold out as long as could be achieved. I did not wish for death, especially not like this.

My thoughts were broken as I heard footsteps coming towards me. Too weak to raise my head again, I simply waited. Why give them any indication that I was awake? I could stall a few precious moments, perhaps even an hour, giving my friend time to find me. Visciously my head was yanked up and I winced despite myself at the sharp movement. Every muscle, each and every tendon ached dully, movement caused the pain to flare up once more. I stared up into the face of my captor, the very smeary, very ugly man. His face swam for a moment, as the movement caused my head to spin and throw me into a wave of dizziness.

"Reconsidered yet, Doc?" he leered and woke anger in my chest. How dare he suggesting I would give him the information he wanted, whatever it was? Unable to put my wrath in any words, I did the one thing I had wished to do for a long time. Precisely since the moment he had stepped into this compartment the first time to interrogate me. I spit him squarely in the face. Very ungentlemanly, I do know that, but in that moment I was simply too angry to care. It was an act born out of sheer defiance and as I refused to speak to him, that was the only thing possible to let him know just how much I despised him. That action however was awarded with a viscious blow to my head, sending it backwards and slamming into the post behind me. I couldn't stop the groan forcing its way out of my throat at the searing pain coursing through my head, almost sending me back into unconsciousness again.

But I held on, rather stubbornly. I would not provide him with that satisfaction.

"Sounds like I needa reinforce tha message!" he growled, sending icy chills down my spine. I knew what that meant. God knows, I knew what came next. His blows showered down upon me, viscious kicks into my chest, where I could hear a slight cracking as he hit the already bruised rip and broke it, a blow to my sternum which had me wheezing for breath and coughing up some blood, terrible cascades of agony lighting up in my head. After an eternity of pain he stopped long enough to catch his breath. _Yes_, I thought sarcastically, _torture is rather breathtaking, isn't it? _I grinned weakly at my own pun.

I drew in ragged gasps, each breath sending another stab of pain through my torso, hearing (and feeling) a rasping sensation in my lungs. This meant fluid in my lungs, my doctors instinct providing me with cruel detail of my current condition, presumably blood. This meant that the possibility of a punctured lung was there, sinking my chances further. If the pain wouldn't do me in, that was. My assess off my own injuries was broken when the figure, now I could only barely recognize any shape around me, the pain clouding my senses, loomed back into view.

Grinning evilly he leaned a bit closer, holding something up in my field of view. At first I could not focus enough to realise what it was. Then, for just an instant, my vision cleared and I saw the thing he held in front of my face. An iron pipe of some sort, perhaps not more than two inches thick. Weakly I blinked, seemingly we were at the stage now where my torturer took on aid from blunt objects. And strangely, I didn't care as much as I had expected.

"Ya know, Doc, you don't wanna gimme tha information, but I've got a better use for ya. I just gonna have a bit 'o fun with ya." he sneered so damned close to my face. My blurred gaze fought to stay focussed on him, but I felt my head lolling weakly down.

_Holmes, where the deuce are you?_

He swung the pipe and let it collide with my shoulder. Grinding my teeth I tried to stabilize myself before the next blow came. I must admit, I could not achieve that. The pipe collided with my chest again and I heard and felt the next rib breaking, left side. Most of it was a blur afterwards, I just recall myself wheezing for breath, coughing up blood and spitting it on the ground, while I tried desperately not to fall unconscious.

_Stay awake..._

He walked around me, crouched behind me, hideously close to my left ear. He leaned himself over my shoulder, I saw his hands twisting the metal bar directly in front of my face, while I still tried to take a breath. Only one full breath, that was all I wanted. And yet I could not do so. I heard his chuckle next to my ear, felt his disgusting breath flow over my face. How I wished I could turn around and hit him. But it was as it was, I could not move and even if I had been able to, I doubted I could have done so. All my energy focussed on taking ragged, short breaths.

"Hurts, don't it, Doc?" he sneered with another chuckle. He was deeply enjoying this, I coulde hear the smile plastered on his split lips. I ground my teeth harder, stared into the dim darkness in front of me, ignored his hands.

_Stay awake, dont give him that satisfaction, stay awake, just a little longer..._

His hands dissappeared and I heard the metal bar as he lay it on the ground, before his clothes rustled faintly. Odd that I could hear everything so clear, while my vision faded slowly. Presently I heard a loud click and wondered what it was he had pulled out now. When his hands came into view again, showing me what he held in his hands, I knew.

_Oh, yes, a flick knife..._

For a moment he let me look at it and I used the moment to my utmost potential. I knew that flick knifes were uncommon, but there. But I also knew they were expensive, assuredly more than this drag of society could afford. Therefore he must have stolen it from someone else. He twisted the blade around, allowing me even more chance to inspect it. No doubt he thought I would be quivering in fear at the sight of it, a sure promise of death at his hands, but the truth was, I was way past fear. I simply saw everything from a somewhat detached standpoint and wondered briefly if this was how Holmes saw the world. Detached, past emotion, just observing everything that was there. For a moment I understood my friend better. Only for a moment however, until the knife was slowly lifted to my throat and I felt the cold steel against my hot skin. The contrast itself was startling and I flinched before I realised it.

Cursing my body for betraying me, I went still and stared straight ahead.

"You a hard 'n to break, eh, Doc?" he asked still so damnable close to me. And then the cold at my throat dissappeared and I felt the blade slicing through the flesh of my left arm. He was lefthanded, I observed through the pain, while I bit back the cry rising in my throat. The knife only bit for a moment, however, before it was taken away again and the man shifted until he crouched in front of me. My gaze blurred again, and my breaths became more ragged. Pain flooded me again, pain I had forgotten, strangely, in the moments he let me allow to see the weapon.

His gaze travelled my body up and down, presumably to judge where he could inflict more pain without me losing consciousness. Or dying. He wanted to drag this out as long as possible, I thought with a growing sense of irrational hate. Just because I wasn't afraid, did not mean I was past hate.

For a moment, he stared at me. And then his face twisted in a hideous grin. He had found a mark, I knew it. My senses dulling, I saw him twist the blade in his hand again, looking at me, grinning like a terrible cat which crouched in front of a half-dead canary.

For a moment, as he lifted the blade, time seemed to slow and grow thick. I closed my eyes, did not wish to see where he would stab me, grund my teeth against the inevitable surge of pain that would flood me once more. And then, time flowed freely again and his hand struck down, the blade piercing my right thigh. Just above the old wound, perhaps an inch higher, I could not tell for sure. I groaned, straining against the bonds in a vain attempt to get away from him. But it was a useless struggle and I heard his chuckle again. I doubt I shall ever be able to forget it again. With a sickeningly slow motion he twisted the blade around, causing the scream I had so carefully restrained, to break free finally. But he wasn't done yet. He twisted the blade in the other direction until my dimmed mind was convinced he wished to sever my limb entirely. I doubt I have ever screamed like that my entire life.

Thankfully my mind dulled quickly in the wake of agony and I dropped into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

When my thoughts returned, I heard myself gasp sharply, for the pain was nearly unbearable. Whoever this man was, he had evidently had his 'fun' with me, and had currently disposed of me in a dark chamber, almost a cell, with no windows. The darkness was impenetrable. The pain was worse. A sensation of agony I hadn't felt before, so terrible that I cannot even describe it in words. My breath came in sharp ragged gasps, each time when my lungs expanded I bit back a cry as searing pain flooded me. I could not move, lay on the damp floor like a rag doll cast away. A trampled rag doll, that was.

Minutes streched into infinity, though it seemed that whole days passed away in the span of a moment. I had no concept of time as I lay there, unable to move. Each tiny twitch in my muscles sent new waves of agony. With my eyes closed, I tried to work my way through all the injuries I could feel. First, there was the splitting headache I had, due to all the blows that had been admitted to my cranium. Concussion possibly, since I could hardly see anything clearly and was disorientated. My chest, now with least two broken ribs and my lung still sounded raspy. Fluid in the lungs, possible puncture. At least two broken ribs, perhaps more, several others severely cracked. My leg, numb with the pain, lying useless on the floor, I could not even move it. Countless aches, possibly bruises or cuts, covered my entire body. A sharp stinging at several points on my arms and shoulders (in addition to the wound from the blade), felt like burn marks.

My, I probably was a pitiful sight. Obviously my captor had continued on as I had passed out from the pain and in some bizzare sense I was glad I hadn't felt it.

And so I lay, for felt eternities, only listening to my ragged breaths and silently pleading for my friend to hurry. The question was not if he would find me, but rather if he would be here soon enough. Before my body failed and betrayed me, though my mind refused to accept it.

Presently a soft voice broke my thoughts, someone was in here with me. A woman, no, a girl, talked to me in a calm and soothing voice.

"John, do you really think this agony is worth it?" she asked and I forced my eyes to open, even though I doubted I could see much. Yet to my surprise I could see the spokes-person clearly, not less than three feet away from me. Indeed a young girl, perhaps not even thirteen, dressed in a pretty black dress, her hands clasped in her lap. Her skin was pale, and her features spoke of a girl that would develop into a beautiful woman. I wondered how she knew my name, or why she spoke in such familiar terms with me. People seldom called me John, only my Mary had and my siblings and parents. Not even Holmes called me John. For a moment I was stunned, wondering if I had gone insane sometime in here. This young girl didn't seem as if she really was there, as strange as that might sound.

I heard her small laugh and was astounded that she could laugh while in a situation like this. Surely she had been caught by these blasted persons also and therefore had no cause to laugh. Or perhaps she was in league with them? Trying to break me psychologically, but how?

"I'm not 'in league' with them, as you so nicely said. I work solely for myself." she said, answering my thought even though I had not spoken a word. I wasn't sure if I could, my lungs hurt too much. And yet she had answered the question I had thought, as if I had spoken it out.

_Thats it, old man, you've officially gone crazy..._ my brain informed me in a calm and quite convincing tone. And again, the girls chuckle distracted me and pulled my attention back to her.

"No, you're not, I can assure you of that. You simply must accept that there are things you cannot quite understand." she told me calmly, tilting her head to the side, regarding me with dark eyes of which I could not see where her pupils ended and her irises began.

I didn't believe her, but then again, had she not just now answered my thought, as if she had heard it? But Holmes had done the same once, and he could not read minds, however much he might enjoy that. For now, I just accepted her presence, whoever she might be.

"Back to my original question, John. Do you think its worth it?" she repeated calmly, smiled and suddenly she did not really seem like a human. _Not in the slightest bit_, I thought with mounting worry. It was odd to think and perhaps my mind had been affected by the injuries I had undertaken, but she seemed - viscious, somehow. There was a terrible, hungry gleam in her eyes as if I was nothing but prey and she the hunter. Then it changed and she regarded me with a careworn, almost sad face. Those cold, black eyes raked my chest and took notice of every little scratch and while she did so, I could feel my mind dim down. I seemed to be lapsing back into unconsciousness. Grimly I held on, the presence of that strange girl too intriguing and frankly, too unsettling to be allowing my mind to be dragged to oblivion.

She met my eyes again and continued speaking, clearly not caring that I was unresponsive to her talk.

"It gets harder to hold on, doesn't it, John? Tell me, can you already feel it, the blood clotting your lungs? How it becomes harder to take the next breath?" she said and looked at me unwavering.

With worry I recognized what she meant. I did indeed feel it. My lungs seemed to be filled with sand, my ragged breaths becoming more labored by the minute. I knew I needed a doctor myself, and I needed it fast, but without help I could not escape this place. I could not even lift my head from the cold stone of the floor beneath me. I balled my right hand in a fist, clutching it against my chest in a vain attempt to relieve myself of the pain. She was right, I did feel it. I felt like choking, suffocating slowly. I coughed visciously, spitting blood on the ground. There was a wound inside my chest, perhaps I had been right in my assumption and one of my lungs was punctured.

It was terrifying, to say the least. To be thus fully aware of each sharp, pained gasp I took, aware that every minute more spent there without the aid of a doctor, was a possible threat to my very life.

_Holmes, why aren't you here yet? _

"Simple. He wont come. Not until its too late." she answered levelly and I ignored the fact that she seemed to have guessed my thought again. I must be easier to read than I thought. I refused to believe her also. I knew vaguely that I needed to hold out a little longer, giving my friend the time he needed to locate my whereabouts. I held on to the belief that he would find me, I trusted our deep friendship that he would not rest until he had found me.

"Suit yourself. Don't believe me then." she said unmoved. I opted simply to ignore her, impolite as it was. I was half convinced that she was just an image of my imagination anyway, driven to the point of near-insanity by the pain in my limbs. It was as simple and as complicated as that. The young woman sitting on the floor across the room was not real.

"Oh I assure you, John, I am very real. You just haven't accepted the inevitable yet." she answered my mind again and I gave up rationalizing it. Madness after all is far from being rational.

A small careless movement of my shoulders caused the pain to flare up again and I groaned weakly, wishing the sensation to be gone. By now I drew in air as much as I could, quick, heaving gulps, while I could feel that I was slipping away. The pain clouded my senses and I was only vaguely aware of the world around me. My gaze found the girl's again, she still sat there, unmoving. Her face unreadable, with those terrible black eyes settled in the pallor of her complexion.

"Accept it John. It becomes easier for both of us that way. You know I am right. Even if you refuse to acknowledge that fact yet." she told me quietly, with a somewhat dissapproving headshake.

"No." I croaked out, forcing my tongue to move and my throat to produce sound. She was wrong! She did not know Holmes as well as I did. I knew somewhere within the dark and dimming recesses of my brain that he would find me, I just needed to hang on a little while longer. He could not have been far away.

"Don't you think he would have been here already if he knew where to look? He doesn't know where you are, John. He will not come to find you. It gets easier when you accept that." she said and drew a bit closer to me. With the proximity of her the cold seemed to increase also and I could feel my throbbing right leg numbing further, losing all feeling in it. However my chest burned still with terrible clarity. Each new gasp let a new wave of hurt break upon me. And still, I refused to believe her. After all, it was all I had right now. Faith in my trusted friend and his abilities. I had told him, a while back, that he would be able to track smoke if he wished to do so, at which he had only chuckled quietly and looked across at me.

"It hurts doesn't it, John?" she asked and tilted her head again. For a moment it seemed to my tired eyes that her figure swam slightly, her edges blurring into the very darkness around, as if she was part of the room and not trapped within it.

_Damned right it does hurt!_ my mind cried out, not caring that this strange figure of imagination would be able to answer once again. She was a part of my imagination I thought, and as such would naturally be privy to my thoughts.

"I can make the pain go away, you know? All you need to do ... is take my hand." she said and stretched her hand towards me, that movement the only one she made before her figure went still and she stared at me again.

I did not want to take her hand, I did not wish to relinquish to insanity completely as to fancy myself I could touch something that was not really there. But the pain was nothing short of sheer agony, each breath proved to be more difficult than the one before. And with every moment I lay there and no one found me, reduced my chances of survival. Surely Holmes would have been here already had he any scent to follow. That he was not here started to unnerv me. I did not wish to believe her, but some treacherous part of my conscious accepted that she had a point. He would not come in time, I could already feel my senses dulling. Why then should I spend my last minutes in sheer agony, if she claimed to rid me of the pain. Perhaps I could hold on a little more if only the pain wasn't so bad.

"Its easy, John. Just take my hand and the pain will leave you. All this agony... it'll be a thing of the past. You have but to take my hand." she whispered kindly and smiled at me once more.

_My that does sound like good odds for once..._ I thought quietly and despite my unwavering faith in my companion, I lifted my right hand slowly.

_If the pain leaves me, I shall be able to hold on longer... _

Each strain of muscle tissue sent waves of pain through my limbs and I lifted my arm terribly slow. Time seemed to stretch again while I diverted all my will to the simple task of grasping the dainty hand so very near me.

"I shall rid you of it, John. And then..." she trailed off, smiling in that queer way again and my hand stopped mid-air.

_What then? _

Yes, indeed, what then? What was it she wanted to say? With some difficulty I looked higher to meet her eyes and saw once more that hungry gleam in her eyes. And then I understood it somehow. She was real and yet she was not. She was there and yet she was far beyond any mortal reach. I did not (and still do not entirely) know, if she was what I had thought her to be, but in that moment I seemed to feel that once I would grab her hand I would not have to wait for Holmes. I would be tipped over the edge and would be gone.

For this young girl was Death herself.

She just smiled serenely and was silent. I knew somehow, however improbable the suggestion was, that I was right. My mind dimmed further and her figure swam again, seemed to fray at the edges, flittering like the air in Afghanistan had over the sand dunes.

And then my vision was blocked by another presence and a warm hand caught mine. Long, thin fingers curled around me, as I was propped up while a sound reached my ears. Unclear at first, but clearing ever further, until I could hear Holmes' voice speaking to me. I doubt not that I would be able to recognize his voice among thousands. When I focussed my gaze upwards, I did not meet black, but clear, deeply troubled grey. For a moment I could not comprehend the meaning of it, but then my mind seemed to focus once more and I understood the change.

Holmes had found me.

I found myself to be too weak for a moment to say anthing, or to move, while I witnessed him turning around, shouting for Lestrade. So Holmes had requested Scotland Yard. That in itself was surprising, but the fact that the hand that still held on to mine, trembled slightly was far from normal either. However when I took a breath, I must have winced visibly, for I saw him cringe in sypathy, a gesture I seldom witnessed in him (if indeed I ever before had) before his eyes wandered over my torso to inspect my injuries. His jaw clenched as he saw my leg, I was not sure whether in boundless anger or sympathy, perhaps a mixture of both.

"I am sorry I'm late, dear fellow, but the trail had been rather difficult to follow." he said quietly with a shake of his head at which I could only smile. Of course, how could I have ever doubted him? He kept speaking to me, but not much reached my ears, I must shamefully admit. I just relished in the fact that I had been found and that I was out of this stinking cesspool. For a moment I closed my eyes, contend to just be. Yet when I opened them again, I found the girl was standing now, death had not left me. She stood on my other side, directly opposite Holmes, which due to his ignorance of that fact served as proof that she came for me.

"If you leave now, John, the pain will go on. Do you really want that? Wouldn't you rather be rid of it once and for all? Wouldn't you like to rest now?" she said and crouched over me, looking me long in the eyes. At such a proximity I could see her eyes quite clearly, they seemed to be swimming in her sockets, I could not even see a bit of white in them. They were just black, emotionless orbs staring down at me. And the cold seized me once more, sending me into a fit of violent shivers, which provoked the pain to flare once more. I could not contain the small cry of pain my throat emitted and felt the hands of my friend beside me clench a bit more in my shoulders.

_I'm right, aren't I? You are death, right?_ I questioned in my mind, knowing she would answer. I needed clarity now, I did not want to succumb to suggestions.

"Yes, I am John. And I give you a choice now. To succumb to suffering, pain and agony. Or to be free of it now and come with me. People do not often get a choice." she added wistfully as she crouched down next to my shoulder.

It did not take me long to decide. I could not leave now. I did not wish to leave now, even if it meant pain.

_As much as your invitation might appeal to me, I must regretfully decline. _

She nodded and stood up. Was it really that easy? That simple? I just had to refuse and she would leave?

"Yes, I'll leave. For now. But one day we will see each other again and then you will not be given a choice. You must be aware of that, John." she answered my thoughts and to my utmost astonishment, just vanished. The sensation I had spotted earlier, her edges blurring and fraying, expanded and it seemed as if a wind took her visible form away.

It was then that I succumbed to unconsciousness once more, convinced that I would be waking to the sight of Holmes.

* * *

When next I opened my eyes, the pain was considerably lessened. My mind was hazy and somewhere within it I deduced for myself that I must have been given pain medication. Judging by the labour of focussing my sight, it must have been morphine. But even though it dulled my senses I was glad for the relief it brought. It took a few moments to adjust my eyes to the dim light around me, before I could find out where I was. Definitely not at home, so much was certain. The ceiling looked nothing like Baker Street. It was rather high and from what I saw, painted in a lightly yellow colour. My eyes roamed the room around, took notice of the iron-posted bed I lay upon and the white sheets that covered me. So I was in a hospital. No doubt, had my senses been fully cleared, I would have been able to find that fact out much faster, but as it was, everything took a bit longer to be registered by my brain.

A soft rustling noise caught my attention and I turned my head to find Holmes, slumped over in a chair next to my bed, literally curled in like a cat, sleeping deeply. I took a few minutes to just observe him. His pale face was drawn, almost haggard, more so than usually. Dark circles lined his lids, clearly the fool had driven himself to exhaustion again in the pursuit of finding me. I doubted not that he had refused to eat or rest in those days I had been gone. And yet I could not bring myself to feel angry at him.

I knew through his actions, even though he had never (and would never) say a word about it, that he cared very well. He had often remarked that he was a brain without a heart, nothing but logical thought, but in such instances his actions proved him wrong. His willingness for self-destruction when someone was in need (me in this instance) showed a deep devotion. In this case it was the devotion to our friendship. Though for his sake I wished my captors had left a clearer trail to follow, for I could spot the signs of starvation upon his pale skin, could see the intense worry still lining his brow and wondered again, how long it had been in a grand total. Judging by the state my friend was in the imbecile must have driven himself relentlessly over the point of collapse.

Silently I shook my head and huffed a quiet chuckle. Which proved to be the entirely wrong thing to do, for the contraction of my chest sent a sharp stab of pain through me, which had me gasping and grinding my teeth. It was a short-lived attack of agony however, and as it started to ebb, I felt a thin hand on my shoulder. Opening my eyes, I knew instantly who it was and where the person was. My eyes looked up to find Sherlock Holmes, wide awake, bending slightly over me, his eyes alone spoke of the worry he had. His face remained stoically unemotional, his gaunt features unmoving, or so it seemed. But I could spot the worry, faint lines upon his brow, the muscles at his jaw clenched, desperate to remain in control of himself.

"Lie still, old chap. Should I fetch you a nurse?" he asked quietly and, as I must remark, rather hurried. His behaviour was anxious, as if he feared I could vanish should he leave my side for so much as a moment.

"No, Holmes. I'm quite contend." I answered and saw one of his eyebrows move upward in an expression of utter disbelief. He did not believe me one word. I really must be a bad liar. It was only a moment however, before worry settled again in his eyes and he looked quite long at me. I knew my voice was weak, proof to the strain I had undergone and I marvelled that I even could form words he could understand.

"Don't look so worried, Holmes. I will be all right again." I said and saw him collapse on his chair, his complexion paling further for a moment, as he took a deep breath. Doubtless the task of standing had exhausted him. His thin hand stretched to me and took my right, which lay atop the blanket. For a moment I was surprised, but when I felt the faint tremor in his fingers, I realised that he must have worried a lot indeed, he just refused to acknowledge it.

"I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson. I should have known they would be after you, knowing they could not fool me. I should have seen it before it happened. I am deeply sorry, Watson." he said quietly and I could see that he had beaten himself up over the fact that I had been kidnapped and tortured for information concerning him.

"It was not your fault, Holmes. Stop being ridicoulous. I should have seen the ruse, for it was indeed a very simple one. Naturally the blame lies with me. I did not give them the information however." I stated and something in his gaze softened slightly as he shook his head and leaned forwards by a few inches.

"I know Watson. I never doubted it. However, given the state you were in when I found you, my dear chap, I wished you would have surrendered it." he answered and looked down for an instant.

"Holmes, they would have killed me had I told them. And as much as my current condition is irksome in many ways, I do not wish for death to take me just yet." I told him and was reminded of the young girl again, sitting across me and holding out her hand. A shudder passed through me as I recalled those black eyes and the fact that I had been close to grab her hand indeed. If Holmes had been a few minutes later, I would have been beyond his reach. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to banish the image from my head and took a deep breath. I purposefully ignored the pain flaring in my chest, or perhaps I was becoming accostumed to it, who knows.

Diverting my eyes again to my friend, who still sat looking at me, regarding me with a strange expression I am still unable to categorize, I smiled weakly. Almost instantly he flashed a small grin at me, only a small twitch of his lips, but I knew he was as relieved as I was to be there.

Sighing I closed my eyes again and let my mind drift off again. I heard his movement faintly, presumably he was leaning back in the chair. I knew very well, it was quite useless to convince him to go home and rest, he would not move from this spot under any circumstance.

Just before I drifted off completely, letting my thought flutter away in the warm caress of sleep engulfing me, I thought that even though I was in pain now and would need months to be back to my old self again, it was worth the trade. Holmes never would have forgiven himself if I had indeed died in that terrible place. The pain would lessen and leave me, I was certain, but I would not have missed the company of my truest friend for all the bliss death offered me.

* * *

I never did tell Holmes of the girl in the room he had found me. I was not sure he would have believed me, and to be quite frank, most times I convinced myself that it had just been a hallucination. That I never truly did see a young woman in there, offering me the choice to live or die. But most of the times, when I had almost convinced myself that I had hallucinated, I remembered those black eyes again and changed my mind.

I had ruled out that she had been visible to anyone but me, for Holmes had surely not seen her, and she was within arms length of him, had she been visible to him, he would have spotted her. So only I could see her then. And as I had not been feverish I could rule delirium out as well, therefore the chances for hallucinating sunk drastically. So, in conclusion, I had been relatively lucid and still no one had spotted her. Given the possibility that I had not been hallucinating her presence there was only one final conclusion I could draw.

That I had seen death indeed.

After all, as Holmes so often remarked to me, if one ruled out all impossibilities, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I knew, as every sensible man should, that one day I would see her again, just as she had told me. But I hope there lie many years between now and that day.

**The End**

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